


Black Moon in the Afternoon Sky

by thuvia ptarth (thuviaptarth)



Category: After School Nightmare
Genre: Multi, No Canon Knowledge Required, Yuletide, yuletide2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thuviaptarth/pseuds/thuvia%20ptarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Around the corner and down the hall you go, through the double doors and then down by the staircase that isn't always there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Moon in the Afternoon Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cinderfallen for Yuletide 2007. Beta by Spring Green and e^y.
> 
> Canon-compliant through Volume Five.

Birds startled into flight blot the afternoon sky. The students in Kokoko High School's hallways stir, disturbed not so much by the silence as by the aftermath of a sound they're not sure was actually there.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Nothing, I guess ..."

"It must have been a quarter past, that's what it means when everyone stops talking at the same time--"

"No, silly, that's not a quarter past, it's a quarter to--"

"I didn't hear anything, did you hear anything?"

\--and the students shrug and go on with their days.

*

Around the corner and down the hall you go, through the double doors and then down by the staircase that isn't always there. The air is filtered down here, the temperature even, so you can't tell the season any better than the time of day. The not-quite-inaudible hum of the fluorescent lights sets your nerves on edge. On the way back, before you push the doors open, you can never stop yourself from wondering if the world ended while you were sleeping; if all you'll find above are the remnants of a holocaust, screaming shadows blasted onto bleached walls, or piles of corpses still bleeding from their open mouths.

You're never sure you're going the right way, but you always manage to find the right room. The nurse waits for you by one of the canopied beds, with a steaming pot of tea and a steel tray of hypodermic needles, although she's never offered you either, not since the first time. You curl up on your side, turning your back to her as she pulls the bed-curtains closed. The light through the crimson drapes is the eerie familiar red of a flashlight shining through the membranes between your fingers, when you cover the bulb with your palm to play at scaring yourself, during the telling of ghost stories on hot summer nights.

You hate this class. You don't like sleeping in the same room as other people; you never have. You like screens you can pull shut, doors you can lock, spaces that are safely your own. The canopies are suffocating yet insecure, too much and not enough. You can hear voices, but not well enough to identify them; footsteps, but not well enough to tell if they're coming towards you. No wonder every dream you have here is a nightmare.

You close your eyes.

*

The late afternoon sun falls on the long library tables in the arched shape of the windows, crossed and barred by shadows, locking the light in or the darkness out. Ichijo barely notices the bars rippling down the page, traveling with the hours from the top of the page down across his hands. A soft warmth brushes his shin and he mutters an automatic apology and shifts his legs. The warmth again, pressing harder, and he looks up from the page, across the narrow table, into Kureha's teasing eyes. Her cheeks are very pink and she is smiling. Beneath the table, her bare toes brush his calf again. Ichijo blushes with what he tells himself is pleasure.

"I need to study," he whispers.

"Am I distracting you, Mashiro-kun?" she whispers back.

"You always distract me," he lies, and the pink of her cheeks deepens. She slides her foot down his leg.

"I'll go if you make me a promise," she says, at last lowering her eyes.

He knows what she wants. After all, isn't it what he wants, too?

"I'll come tonight," he says. "Wait up for me."

He watches her go faithfully, then turns his attention back to the book before him. The letters blur into an unwanted name. He slams the book shut, too loud; when he looks up guiltily, all he sees are the pale blotches of other faces turned toward him, blanked-out by the afternoon glare. They could be paper cut-outs instead of human faces. Pretending no unease prickles up his spine, he shoves back his chair. He clenches his hands into fists. He's just tired. He just needs a change of subject. He loves Kureha, he loves sex with her, he's perfectly happy. He blunders at random through the stacks, the rows of bookcases looming tall as trees, and finds himself among the foreign literature. He looks for English, pretending he can't hear the low awkward murmur of Sou's voice from class. The strange alphabet dizzies him: the letters look like pictographs from an alien planet where _mountain_ means _one_ and _tall_ means _self._

Sou is waiting for him. Of course Sou is waiting for him. His book was spelling out Sou's name.

Sou isn't waiting for him; Sou is in the same English class, of course he's looking for the same textbook. Sou looks down at him, indifferent, scowling. Ichijo's heart beats faster, with envy, with hatred, with longing. Everything's so easy for Sou: height, strength, indifference.

"I just came for a book," Ichijo says, reaching past Sou.

Sou waits till he's leaning in, their faces at the the closest point. "I don't care what you came for."

His breath is sour and warm on Ichijo's cheek, stirring wisps of Ichijo's hair like a touch. Ichijo knows, all the way down to his bones, that Sou is lying. Sou cares what he's come for. Sou cares _a lot. _Ichijo balances there, stretching past Sou, and he feels the weight and heat of Sou all along his skin, like Sou's gravitation is pulling him up; like--he looks into Sou's angry eyes, Sou's angry, fearful eyes--his gravity is pulling Sou down.

Ichijo kisses him.

He kisses Sou hard, angrily, passionately, open-mouthed, dragging Sou down by the arms. Groping up to his upper arms, fingers digging in so hard they cramp, crowding in between Sou's legs, shoving him back up against the books. Sou opens for him like a girl, his lips, his legs; weak and willing as Kureha; weak and willing as Ichijo has been, when Sou's kissed him.

Ichijo bites Sou's lip, then, more savagely, Sou's neck. "I thought you said you didn't want me anymore," he murmurs, tugging Sou's shirt loose.

"I thought you said you loved that girl," Sou says, and Ichijo's hands go still. Blood beats like a demand in his forehead, his temples, between his legs. Slowly, he withdraws his hands. Sou grabs them, presses them flat to his belly, rising and falling with his quick breath. The hardness of Sou's ribs brush Ichijo's fingertips with each breath, and a different hardness bumps his wrists.

"Let me go." Ichijo ignores the flush in his own cheeks and tries to twist his hands free. "Sou, let me go!"

"_You_ kissed _me_!" Sou only grips harder. "_You_ kissed _me_ this time."

"I'm sorry." Ichijo stares down at their hands, and Sou stops struggling, although he doesn't let go; stillness always makes Sou give up, he should have remembered that. "I'm sorry," he says again, miserably, because it's true. Then in a sudden burst of frustration: "Your hands are so strong! Your hands are so strong, and mine are so weak. I hate it."

Sou's hands spring open like Ichijo's burnt him. He wets his lips like he's going to speak, but then he doesn't. He's a mess, his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed and his shirt tugged half out of his pants. Ichijo sways forward, then takes a step back.

"I'm with Kureha now," Ichijo murmurs, almost to himself. "I'm with her. It's done now. It's set."

Sou goes pale in a rush, then red again. "How? How can you be with her? You've got nothing down there to f--"

He staggers into the bookcase from the force of Ichijo's slap, falling down on one knee. His spilled-ink eyes are endless, unanswerable.

"You're a girl," Sou says from the floor. "You even hit like a girl. A man would have punched me."

Ichijo hates him so much it's hard to breathe. He makes himself inhale deeply, tug his own shirt back to place. He turns his back.

"Don't go." Ichijo pauses. Sou pleads: "Don't go to her. Tonight. Don't go to her. Come to me."

Ichijo walks away, his back held very straight. He passes within inches of Kureha, hiding in the shadow of a row of bookcases, the loops of a white plastic bag twisted around her fingers, and never sees her, and neither does Sou. She watches them both: Mashiro-kun walking away, Mizuhashi slumping on the floor. Mizuhashi bangs the back of his head against a shelf of books, then pushes himself up. He doesn't bother to straighten himself up; his face is closed up, indifferent again, the print of Mashiro-kun's hand coming out red on his cheek, the marks of Mashiro-kun's teeth pale in his swollen lip. His stride is loose and long, careless and powerful. He's like an animal: his keen eyes, his white teeth, his size and strength. His wanting things without caring who he hurts.

Kureha's fingers tighten on the thin white plastic straps, and the bag of snacks sways into her leg, the brush startling her awake up. She feels her way out of the library along the shelves, half-blind with tears.

"Fujishima-san."

Kureha looks up, blinking against the light. The school nurse folds her arms across her chest, her calm face offering neither pity or censure. She looks so pure and untouchable that Kureha feels disgusting by contrast. Filthy. Instinctively, she pulls her legs together, rubs a hand across her eyes.

"It's time for your afternoon class, Fujishima-san," says the nurse.

*

"You're an idiot," the little girl says, digging her chin into her teddy bear's head as she stares at you. You ignore her, tugging your skirt down over your knees and running your hands down your school jacket to make sure it lies smooth and unwrinkled. It's the closest thing you've got to armor. You wish you had real armor like the Black Knight -- like Sou. You wish you had impenetrable steel skin, a sword, a mask. Instead, anyone can see what and who you are.

"Do you know where Kureha is?" you ask the little girl.

She flicks you a disbelieving, contemptuous stare. "Like I'd help _you."_

"You did before," you say.

The little girl twists the teddy bear's ear. "That wasn't for _your_ sake."

"Well, then," you say uncertainly, "goodbye," and her stare on your back is nearly as piercing as the Black Knight's sword. You raise your hand protectively to the beads around your neck, afraid one will burst. You can't die yet. You have to find Kureha. You owe her now.

You _love_ her, you correct yourself. You have to find her because you love her.

A rattle and a slither, and you whip back, a scream trapped inside your throat; then you relax. It's not a snake, just the boneless arm with a hand at either end, inching its way down the hall. The fingers of the wrist with the bead bracelet feel around for obstacles, before the arm hunches up and pushes forward. After so long, the arm doesn't seem that strange anymore; you even feel a stirring of pity. This is someone even worse off than you.

"Do you need help?" you ask impulsively. "I'm here for Kureha, but ... I can take you somewhere, as long as it doesn't hurt her. I don't mind."

The arm pauses; the fingers tap the floor. When it doesn't move forward, you decide that's a nod, and step forward to pick it up. Gingerly, you wrap it around your neck like a feather boa, the hands resting warm and quiet against your upper arms. The arm is heavier than you expected, more muscular, and very warm. You exhale slowly. "Okay. Okay. Now. Kureha ..."

The arm moves against your neck and you squeak, a little squeak, like a girl seeing a mouse; the arm stops and you can feel yourself blushing bright red. "Sorry." You brush it with your fingers. "You startled me, that's all. Go ahead."

Slowly, carefully, the arm rises up to point left.

"Kureha's that way? How do you know? Are you sure?"

The arm trembles slightly against your neck, and you swallow. "You can't tell me. Right. Okay. Might as well."

You follow its directions past the third-floor science labs, down two flights of stairs. "I hope Kureha's not outside." Your voice echoes oddly in the stairwell. "Gardens aren't good for her. Though I guess it doesn't matter here, inside becomes outside ... " It's a dispiriting thought. You chatter to distract yourself. "How long have you been in the class? You were here when I first came, right? Have I seen you outside? Not outside-outside. You know. Outside of class."

The arm pushes a door open in front of you and you enter your English classroom. "Kureha?" You stand near the front of the room and turn around slowly, looking for her. There's still writing on the chalkboard: _A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet._ You wonder what "gall" is.

"Kureha?" you say again, and a sharp pain lances through your heart, shoving you forward. You crash to your knees, barely aware of the desk and chairs you knock aside. You fall down, all the way down, one of your beads shattering. You curl up on your side, panting, your vision blurry with pain. "Kureha, stop --"

She looms over you, shrieking and baring her teeth, her eyes crazed and full of hatred. You stare stupidly at her mud-spattered feet, so close, one of them in a bright red rubber rain-boot and the other one bare. Her toes are small and curling and pink, and the nails are painted salmon, with glittery silver hearts on the big toes. Her mother must have done that, or her best friend, you think, and your heart hurts so much you think another bead might have burst. Blood drips down her legs as she lurches forward, stabbing her umbrella at you.

You cry out. Something darts in front of you and red sprays across your face. You wipe it off, staring. The boneless arm stretches out in a limp curve on the floor, the umbrella tip pinning one splayed palm to the floor, the shards of one bead lying like a broken eggshell around the wrist. You choke on your horror. Kureha tugs at the umbrella, trying to break it free.

"Kureha -- Kureha, _don't!"_ You push yourself up onto your knees, nearly tumbling flat on the arm. You kneel over it and manage to close your hands over Kureha's where she's tugging at the umbrella handle. "It's not going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you. Kureha!"

"You!" she hisses right into your face. Her eyes are terrible, terrible. "You _monster!_"

You meet her gaze steadily, summoning up all your bravery, all your love. "There aren't any monsters here." You squeeze her hands. "There's nothing more to be afraid of."

She jerks the umbrella free with a yell, then rushes forward. The arm flops up in front of you and you cry, "No!" as Kureha stabs it again, your bead and the arm's bead bursting as one.

"Don't!" you shout. "It's not doing anything to you, don't hurt it!"

"I hate you," Kureha snarls, and stabs you through the heart.

You wake up sobbing so hard it shakes your entire body.

*

Sou lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, counting the cracks between each tile by moonlight. He fingers the soreness near his collarbone where Ichijo bit him, but he's been doing that all day, and it's no longer a comfort; it's just sore.

He's pretty sure Ichijo has gone to Kureha. They're probably in bed together now, doing whatever it is that two girls do together. Using mouth and hands. Ichijo's face is flushed and she's looking at Kureha the way she's never looked at him, as if she will protect her against anything. She's beautiful. She's always so beautiful. He thinks about moving his hand down, about jerking off, but his hands feel too heavy to move. His body is too heavy to move. It doesn't seem worth the bother. He closes his eyes. She's always so beautiful, Ichijo.

The knock on the door jolts him awake, his stupid heart leaping like it's not just Ai playing games.

"Come in," he calls, not getting up. It's not like Ai listens when he says no. It's not like he ever says no.

"Hey."

Stupid heart, leaping like that. Sou pushes himself up, maneuvering his back against the wall. Ichijo hovers in the doorway, like she's waiting for invitation. It's too dark to see her face, but Sou knows the stiff uncertain pride of her posture by heart. He knows everything about her, except all the things she's never told him. He knows everything about her, except why she's here.

She comes in, finally, shutting the door behind her, and after a moment she crosses over to his bed. It's too dark to make out her expression, but it doesn't feel dark enough to be safe. He feels naked. Worse than naked; he usually doesn't care if he's naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.

She reaches out for him and he leans forward, helplessly, into the expectation of her kiss. But she only reaches for his hands. Pulls them out and turns them over and holds them up to the patch of moonlight so they can both see the shape of his fingers, the creases across his palms. A shiver runs all through him, and he knows she can feel it. He knows she knows. He wants to pull his hands free, hide them behind his back; he wants her to never stop touching him, ever.

"What do you want?" he says roughly. "Isn't your girlfriend waiting for you?"

She looks up then, but it doesn't help; the moonlight is clear around their hands, not her face.

"She probably is," Ichijo says quietly. "But I came to see you. Sou. I came to you." She raises his left hand to her mouth and kisses the palm, the exact center, the exact place where Kureha stabbed him in the dream when he tried to protect Ichijo from her.

He jerks his hand free, curls it into a fist. "So this is thank you?" He tries for a sneer, but his voice is shaking.

"You couldn't save me," Ichijo says. "What do I have to thank you for?"

"Why are you here?" His voice is cracking. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Why are you here?"

Ichijo takes in a deep breath and for the first time Sou realizes she's trembling, too. "Because I want to be." She puts one knee on the bed. "Because I couldn't save you, either. Or Kureha. Because it's not about saving other people." She hoists herself up on the bed, straddles his lap. Takes his face in her hands. "Because you're not strong, and I'm not strong, but I want you, Sou."

She kisses him, not like the library, not like she's ever kissed him before. She kisses him like he is very fragile, very precious. He _feels_ fragile. He feels like he's going to burst like a smashed bead. He rests his hands on her thighs, curling his fingers inward towards her damp heat, not daring to grip harder. She shifts closer. She can feel his erection, he knows, and yet she doesn't run.

"You're mine now?" he asks. A warning voice in his head tells him not to speak, not to give her time. Not to give her a choice. "You're my girl?"

She tosses her head back impatiently and his throat seizes up: he's lost her. He knows he's lost her. But she just lies down on her side and pulls him down next to her. "I'm not a girl," she says. She's so close to him her breath warms his mouth, tickles his nose. "I'm not a boy. I'm just me."

He closes his eyes, terrified of the shine of her eyes, the scent of her skin. "Yeah. Okay." His heart is beating so loud she must be able to hear it. She must be. "Ichijo. I love you, Ichijo."

"Yeah," Ichijo says softly, "me, too, Sou," and she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him in for a kiss.

*

Kureha wears her favorite nightgown: virginial white, down to her ankles, a whisper of lace at neckline and sleeves. The length and looseness are comforting, but so is the deep neckline, the thinness of the lawn; she knows the cloth hides nothing, that beneath it Mashiro-kun will be able to see the heavy curve of her breasts, the darkness between her legs. She puts on makeup, blush, lipstick, eyeshadow, careful not to let her hands shake, and practices smiling at the mirror, then jumps up when she realizes she's forgotten to unlock the doors to the balcony. After she pushes the doors open, she slides down the doorframe to sit on the floor. The cold makes her shiver, but she still smiles. She must smile. If Mashiro-kun forgives her, if she forgives Mashiro-kun, she must smile.

She waits past midnight for him. She is still sitting there, hugging herself against the cold and smiling despite the tear tracks on her face, when she finally falls asleep.

*

Even though it's day (is it day?), the school is empty, echoing, no one in the halls and classrooms, the chairs tucked into the desks and the blackboards washed clean. The black moon shines in the white sky, a photonegative heaven, too crisp and too perfect, like a special effect in a movie. You are the only flaw in the perfection, you and the trail of mud and blood and slime you leave as you limp through the clean halls.

Movement in the corner of your eye, and you swing up your arm to stab--

"Why are you hesitating?" the little girl asks from the opposite direction, and you jump.

She is tiny and perfect and pretty, like she doesn't bleed or bruise or sweat, like you used to be able to pretend to be, like you never actually were. You open your mouth to speak, but you aren't sure a voice will come out until it does, and then you are surprised it's only hoarse and faint. Not shrieking. Not monstrous.

"It's not hurting me," you say.

"Of course not," the little girl says scornfully. Her sly eyes are like the eyes of other girls as they titter at you behind their hands. "It's just a shadow."

You look again, and she's right: it's just a shadow. You continue limping down the hall, the little girl trailing behind you. "Are you looking for Mashiro Ichijo?"

You press your free hand to your chest instinctively at the burst of pain, but the beads around your neck hang solid and cool. You can survive some pains. You'd forgotten that.

"No," you say. Your voice sounds stronger and smoother. It must be the practice. "No. Mashiro-kun isn't looking for me, so I can't look for him anymore."

"Don't be silly," the little girl says. She swings her teddy bear up and down by its arms, as if it's a baby she's thinking about bashing into a wall. "You can look for anything you want."

"I want ..." You want to stop limping. You tug off your one rubber boot and set it neatly by the side of the hall, so no one else will trip over it. After a few more meters, you realize you're too warm and you unbutton your raincoat. It doesn't help enough, so you take that off, too, and fold it carefully before setting it down. Your favorite nightgown shimmers pretty and clean and you rub the silk between your fingers and thumb for comfort as you walk.

"Where are you going?" the little girl asks breathlessly. She is skipping now, half-running, to try to keep up with you, but you can't slow down. For once you know exactly where you're going.

"Down," you tell her. "Out."

"You can't get out without a key!" she shrills.

You shake your head. "You can always get out."

You don't hesitate even when you see the white marble wall where the staircase to the basement should be. Set into the wall is a broad bronze plaque and etched onto the plaque is the school logo. It's huge, the logo, taller and wider than you. You always thought it was an egg, from the shape, but now that it's so big, you can see the bars.

You hesitate. The little girl is muttering something, a breathless urgent rant you can't make out.

"Tell Mashiro-kun ..." Your eyes fill with tears. You sniff the tears back and shake your head, shake your body like you're shaking out a blanket you've taken down from the shelf. You lay your umbrella down by the side of the hall, out of the way, then you walk right up the engraved birdcage and place your palm over the keyhole. The door of the cage swings open.

*

You wake in your lover's arms to the tolling of bells.


End file.
